


i’m asking you, baby, to get it on with me

by kattyshack



Series: come on home and turn me on [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Humor, Roommates, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: An empty flat, a heatwave, and heretofore delayed gratification make Jon and Sansa hella thirsty.(title from “let’s get it on,” by marvin gaye)





	i’m asking you, baby, to get it on with me

It’s mid-afternoon on a Thursday when Jon steps into the flat to find Sansa clad in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a layer of sweat. She’s got her legs in the air, propped up by the seat of the sofa while her upper half is sprawled on the hardwood floor.

This is the problem with living with and lusting after Sansa. Jon has been able to think of little else since their impromptu snogging session last week. The ensuing heatwave hasn’t helped matters, as it’s forced them all to wander around the flat in various states of near-undress. But Sansa, naturally, is the only one of the lot who still manages to look like one of Jon’s wet dreams. He’s been sporting a fine sheen of sweat himself for the past couple of days, and he fully intends to get as naked as is socially acceptable when you’re sharing a flat with four other people. But right now the only person he sees is Sansa, and he wants to get _completely_ naked with her. 

Jon swallows his nerves, but between the whirring fans inside, the bustling sounds of the street through the open windows, and Sansa’s copy of _Marvin_ _Gaye’s Greatest Hits_ playing on the iPod speaker, thankfully she won’t be able to hear the mad hammering of his heart. Jon’s not sure if it would be discernible in even the most profound silence, but he’s relieved that they won’t be testing that particular scientific theory today. He’s shit at science, anyway.

“It’s so hot,” Sansa moans by way of greeting.

She’s fanning herself with a magazine—a rather outdated _Playboy_ that she must have found in Robb’s room. Jon hasn’t had much need for porn since Sansa moved in, and even less so since he’d had his hand down her pants. If he feels like getting off, well, the entire flat smells like her perfume so he’s pretty much ready to go whenever he likes, thanks.

“I know,” he agrees as he approaches. He shoves a styrofoam cup into her free hand. “I brought you a smoothie.”

Sansa gasps in unabashed—and perhaps a bit exaggerated—glee. “My hero.”

Her words do something funny to his insides, but Jon only snorts as she takes unfairly arousing pulls from the straw.

“Please, don’t go,” she says as Jon moves to the bedroom to kick off his shoes and collect himself. “I’m in love with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon tells her, pointedly avoiding her declaration of love. She says that every time he brings her a smoothie, heat index notwithstanding; she just really likes smoothies. “It’s a thousand degrees, I’m just taking off my pants.”

Sansa wolf-whistles. “Am I in the midst of a heat-induced hallucination, or is Jon Snow giving me a striptease?”

Jon laughs. “That depends on who else is home.”

“We’re all alone,” she singsongs back at him. “Now, come on, take off your shirt and shimmy for me.”

To appease her good humor—and maybe to show off, just a bit, since they’ve found themselves alone again—Jon whips off his shirt and tosses it through his open doorway, where it lands with a soft _fwump!_ somewhere in the adjoining room. Sansa shouts an appreciative “Ow- _ow_!” and Jon chuckles again.

“I thought you were suffering from heatstroke?” he reminds her as he steps back into the front room in nothing but athletic shorts. He waves his phone at her before tossing it aside. “That’s what you texted me, anyway. How is it that you can find the energy to objectify me when you’re on the brink of death?”

“I have precious few moments left.” The heat is a worthy contender to their banter, so Sansa’s overdramatic sigh is only half-feigned. “Would you really refuse me my dying wish?”

 _Like hell I’d refuse you anything_ , Jon thinks as he walks by her to the kitchen. But he doesn’t say so out loud; just because they’d practically humped on the couch doesn’t mean he should go all ride-or-die just yet. So instead he sticks his head in the freezer and calls back to her, “And that’s your dying wish, is it?”

“To see you do a little shirtless shimmy?” Sansa clarifies. “Yes, I think that might make the sweet embrace of death worth the trouble.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Jon replies, forcing a dry tone at the thought of a topless Sansa doing just about anything for him. Having his hand up her shirt last week had been one thing, but Jon thinks he’d probably drop dead if he actually got to see her tits.

It doesn’t help that she’s playing her preferred Marvin Gaye, either. It’s not that Jon is opposed to the man’s musical work, but the words _I’m hot just like an_ _oven_ are more liable to make him laugh than DTF. But put him alone in the flat with Sansa to the tune of “Sexual Healing”? Forget about it. Jon would fuck her to the _Teletubbies_ theme song if he had to, for chrissakes.

“You don’t want to see mine,” Sansa says almost warningly as Jon heads back into the sitting room, holding an ice-cold bottle of lager to the back of his neck. “I’ve been sweating buckets for days, I’m utterly damp. Not at my best at all.”

Jon is pretty sure she’s not thinking about what she says before she says it. Even if she thinks that “utterly damp” isn’t her best, it’s certainly the way Jon wants her.

Jon leans against the open doorway that separates the kitchen from the sitting room, his eyes concentrated on Sansa’s bright blue toenails in his efforts to keep them from wandering elsewhere. Because if he follows the arch of her foot and then the line of her calves up to the curve of her thighs, he just knows he’ll catch a glimpse of the cotton boyshorts she’s wearing under that T-shirt—another one of _his_ T-shirts, by the way, that old thing from his first year at uni that he’d grown out of when he started working out—and _honestly_ it’s more than he can take.

“Is that cold?” Sansa asks, nodding at the bottle and prompting him out of his thoughts.

“No, I thought it’d be more refreshing to nuke it,” he jokes.

“I hate you.” Sansa tries to keep her tone clipped and cool, but she whimpers a bit when she holds out her hand. “Come on, give it to me.”

_Oh, I’ll give it to you, all right—_

_For FUCK’S sake, Jon._

He dutifully hands over the beer, trading it for Sansa’s empty smoothie cup. Even though he’d made sure to order her the largest available size—it’s not like they’re American, after all, and as such they do have _some_ semblance of portion control—Sansa had already finished it off. He tosses the cup into the bin, then settles himself on the floor next to her, his back against the sofa, which means that he’s perhaps too close to her long bare legs for comfort. But it’s so fucking _hot_ and the hardwood does, at least, offer some relief.

“I hate this country,” Sansa murmurs once she’s polished off the last of the lager. She runs the empty but chilled bottle along her arms. “We should invest in emergency air-con. When I die, please start a political campaign in my name, would you? Convince them that air-con’s patriotic. It saves lives.”

“Drama queen.” Jon smirks when she kicks his shoulder. He wants to grab her ankle and keep it there, but he checks his impulse control just in time. “D’you want some ice?”

“Are you offering to give me an erotic iced massage?” she teases.

Jon gives her a little suggestive side-eye. “Depends. How long ‘til someone comes home, d’you think?”

Sansa presses her lips together, humming thoughtfully through her grin. “A fair few hours, at least. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we had the place to ourselves all night.”

His eyebrows shoot up. _“Really?”_

“Mmhmm.” Sansa lets her eyes rake obviously over Jon’s bare chest. He’s pretty sure she licks her lips like that on purpose, too. “Robb’s at the office, said not to wait up. Theon and Yara took the boat out, so you know they’re scamming on girls at the beach. Gendry’s dad’s got a pool, so Arya headed out a couple of hours ago and I _think_ she and Gendry are sleeping together, so— _you know_.”

“Uh-huh.” But Jon’s more interested in grazing his thumbnail along her calf muscle than he is about their friends’ love lives. “Lot of secret affairs going ‘round.”

Sansa points to herself and then to him. “Are you talking about us? Because we haven’t slept together. I seem to recall a failed attempt at orgasm—”

“Oi, you can blame Theon for that!” Jon protests. He pinches her thigh and smirks when she wriggles. “I could give you an orgasm if I wanted to.”

 _“If?”_ Sansa echoes dubiously.

“I’ll do it. Right now.” As if to prove his point, Jon moves one of her legs only to position himself between them. He’s hovering over her now, his own legs cramped between her and the couch behind him. But the discomfort hardly touches him when her body’s under his.

The heat must be going to his head, Jon thinks as he trails short, harsh kisses up Sansa’s neck. The heat, and the press of her chest against his, and the way that he’s wanted her for months, and the need that had lingered since Theon unknowingly interrupted them a week ago.

“You want me to get you off?” Jon asks into the hickey he just left on her collarbone. “Maybe we’ll actually make it to the bedroom this time.”

Sansa shrugs through the pleasant shiver Jon elicits with his mouth on her skin. Her hands are braced on his shoulders, keeping him steady while he readjusts his position so his hardening cock is rubbing her aching center. “We can do it on the floor, I’m not picky.”

“Hmm.” Jon’s fingers creep up her knee. “You were last time.”

“Last time I was only paying you back for bandaging up my ankle.” Her hips meet the slow grind of his. “This time you brought me a smoothie. I owe you immediate sex. It’s my civic duty.”

“You drank all my beer, too,” he reminds her while he toys with the edge of her underwear. He can feel how hot she is underneath, hotter than the air outside and more stifling than the interior of the small, empty flat; he rubs his fingers into the crease of her thigh and she twitches deliciously into his touch.

“I owe you sex twice, then,” she amends around a hitched breath when his lips ghost over her jaw. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Jon says, and slips his hand into her panties.

He catches her sharp sigh in his mouth when he kisses her. She tastes like strawberries and hops, and the slight tang of sweat that had formed above her lip. She hadn’t been lying when she said she was utterly damp—her mouth, her skin, her cunt as it clenches around his probing fingers; Jon’s dizzy with it. Or maybe it’s impending heatstroke, he considers, kissing her deeply all the while. But screw that, because Jon _refuses_ to succumb to hospitalization before he’s had a chance to fuck Sansa on the floor, so that’s just going to have to wait.

Since their disrupted rendezvous on the couch, Jon’s been going mad with his inability to touch her. He should have known it would be like this once he got his hands on her again—fast and frenzied and dirty. Much as he’d like to give her slow and seductive, they’re both dying to pick up where they left off and end it in a release this time.

 _“Mmmm,”_ Jon groans when she sucks on his tongue in that way he’s already found drives him crazy. His thumb massages her outer lips while she rides his index and middle fingers. “Christ, San, you make me hard—”

“Yeah, do I?” Sansa juts her hips up so she can feel his hand and his hardness all at once. “Stop with your fingers a minute, I wanna ride your leg.”

Jon swears as he pulls his hand from her underwear. He rolls his hips into hers as she rubs her pussy in circles against his thigh. He buries his face in her neck while she kisses his, nipping with her teeth and blowing tantalizing breaths onto the aches she leaves behind.

“I wanna go down on you,” Jon tells her. He licks a stripe under her jaw. “Shit—god, if I do, I’m gonna come—”

“That’s so hot.” Sansa practically tears her panties off in her efforts to divest herself of them. Jon helps her kick out of them, then his own shorts, leaving them both naked save Sansa’s shirt. Jon likes her in his clothes, though, so he only rucks the thing up enough to get his mouth on her nipple.

“Yeah?” Jon husks against her breast. “You want me to come while I’m eating you out?”

“First I want you to fuck me.”

 _“Jesus…”_ Jon buries his head between her tits and laps at her sternum like it’s her pussy. Sansa reaches a hand behind her head, under the coffee table where she’d stashed a condom after she’d texted Jon earlier. She rips the foil packet open with her teeth, then reaches between them to roll it onto him.

Jon’s kissing his way up her neck. “You sure? I really wanna go down on you, Sansa…”

“Trust me, Jon, I’m not finished with you after this,” she assures him as he nudges her entrance. “Come on, love, take me now and we’ll save the rest for later.”

High on her as he is, Jon doesn’t need telling twice. The room is fucking _spinning_ and he kisses her like it’s the only way to center his world again.

A low, ragged moan escapes Sansa when his cock enters her, more slowly than they’d done anything else thus far. God, she’d just wanted him _so bad_ , it’s a wonder she didn’t just jump him as soon as he walked through the door.

 _“Fuck,”_ Jon growls as he pants into her mouth. His thrusts are shallow and erratic, and Sansa is taking them with a stream of the loveliest sighs he’s ever heard. “You’re so tight, sweetheart, fuckin’ Jesus _Christ—mmmph_ , Sansa, you feel too fucking good—”

A thrill shoots up her smarting spine as Jon pounds her harder into the floor. She’s going to be well bruised and they’re surely disturbing the downstairs neighbors, but Sansa’s mind is too full of Jon’s filthy mouth to worry. Her hands grip his waist, their skin slick with sweat from the heat outside and between their bare, writhing bodies. Jon’s breath is harsh in her ear, and only distantly can she hear the music on the speaker and the traffic beyond the open windows.

“God, you’re gonna make me come,” Jon mutters almost reverently. He catches her eye, pupils blown wide, faces flushed from heat and sex. He snakes one hand down to her clit, rubbing it while he continues to take her with one rapidly deepening thrust after the next. Sansa’s biting her lip, releasing it only to moan his name, and if she keeps doing that Jon’s going to come hard and quick and like _right now_ —

“I want you to come first, sweetheart,” he tells her, his cock and his hand more insistent as she chases her release. “Come on, Sansa, I wanna get you off, I bet you’re hot as fuck when you come—”

That does it. Her back arches, toes curl, that tightly-wound coil in the pit of her stomach unwinds, and she’s cursing Jon even as his name falls repeatedly from between her lips, because he’s an arrogant filthy sexy son of a bitch and she’s never come harder. He’s still going as she comes down, but it’s only a matter of moments before he’s stuttering out her name like a lusty prayer.

They’re both breathing heavy when Jon collapses on top of her, face in her neck and lips catching on her hair when he says _“Fuck”_ for what’s sure to be the hundredth time that afternoon. He slaps his palm against the floor next to her head and says it again.

“That is—” Jon takes a few bracing gulps of air— “ _not_ what I expected when I bought you that smoothie.”

Sansa’s laughter shakes out of her. “Funny, because that’s exactly what I’d pictured.”

“Hmm.” Jon seems to consider this. Then, suddenly, he’s on his feet, pulling Sansa with him and scooping her into his arms, princess-style, with the ease of a man who hadn’t just physically exerted himself in such earnest. Sansa yelps at the movement, and he’s still panting as he carries her to the bedroom.

“Jon, what—”

“I pictured it in a bed,” he explains, voice hoarse as he deposits her onto the mattress and climbs on top of her. “Slower, too. I thought we’d go slow the first time. But damn if the heat didn’t go straight to my head.”

“Sure, blame the heat,” Sansa teases as best she can when Jon’s nuzzling her neck again. “Or you could give my womanly wiles _some_ credit…”

“Mhmmm,” Jon chuckles. His hands sweep up her ribcage to take her breasts. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll praise your womanly wiles the rest of the day.”

She claims his lips with hers before he can start nibbling her earlobe like he’d intended. He hums into the kiss, then draws it slower and deeper and longer, just the way he means to make love to her well through the night—provided their flatmates stay out that long, that is. 

Well, there’s no sense in wasting precious time. So while the music continues in the sitting room, they let the playlist run its course on repeat.


End file.
